


Scavengers

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Crossdressing, Cuckolding, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Frottage, Gen, Ghouls, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pegging, Prostitution, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stuff I've written for the Fallout Kink Meme. Mostly porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Still Waters, Cass/Boone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Cass gives Boone the ride of his life with her strap on. Bonus points if she makes him scream, extra bonus points if its in the Lucky 38 and the Courier hears it._
> 
> [Original post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5459.html?thread=10854739)
> 
> Kinks: femdom, pegging, strap-on, bondage, light roleplay

Cass and Boone had been hooking up semi-regularly for almost five months. In that time, Cass had peeled back a few layers of his psyche, gotten an inkling of the tangled mess that lay beneath his placid exterior. The boy looked like your standard-issue jarhead, but his mind was a hornets' nest of repression and guilt. Her Mama'd always said that still waters ran the deepest, but Cass thought there ought to be some sort of limit. Craig Boone was fucked in the head, and if she'd known that from the start, she might have told him to get bent the first time he asked her for a fuck.

Of course, she might have said 'yes' anyway. He was built like an old-timey strongman: broad shoulders, thick waist, hard lines of muscle softened by a layer of fat. She liked burly men with soft tummies and hairy chests and big, thick dicks. Boone had it all.

In addition to his laundry list of neuroses and psychological hangups, Boone was into some kinky shit. Cass didn't mind one bit, but it surprised her at first. He'd been real reluctant to bring his it up with her, but she'd coaxed it out of him after a long afternoon holed up in the 38 with a bottle of absinthe. Most of it was pretty basic: stockings and garter belts, submission and handcuffs. He liked a few fingers in his ass while he got head, and he liked giving head more than any man she'd ever met. He had a rudimentary fantasy regarding sexy drill sergeants. She indulged him by letting him call her "ma'am" while she was riding his cock. Seemed like the least she could do.

She'd made a point of trying everything he liked at least once. It didn't all work for her (she'd laughed so hard at the sight of him in heels and silk panties that he didn't speak to her for a week), but some it clicked with her. She particularly liked the butt stuff: The man had a fine ass, and she delighted in finding new things to do with it. She loved the way he bit his lips when she pushed into him, loved the way he mewled when she hit his prostate. She loved working him over with three fingers and a tin of lanolin, loved keeping him on the edge of orgasm until he was begging to come, red in the face and staining against the belt she'd looped 'round his wrists.

There was only one fantasy she hadn't indulged, and only because it required some legwork to fulfill. She'd heard of pegging, of course, but she'd never met a man willing to give it a try. And because she was unwilling to patronize the sick fucks at Gomorrah, she had no idea where a gal could get her hands on a strap-on. Two months of discrete inquires, and she finally found the solution on her doorstep: Michelangelo was a glassblower, and he owed the Courier a favor. Cass cashed in it on the boss' behalf, reasoning that what the Courier didn't know couldn't hurt 'em.

Even after she brought the damn thing home, she had a few reservations. The dildo was huge. Boone was a glutton for punishment with a pliant ass, but she was legitimately worried the damn thing might tear him apart. She'd heard horror stories about emergency midnight trips to the Followers to repair a blown-out ass, but she wasn't much interested in having her sex life become a cautionary tale. She considered returning the strap-on to Michelangelo and requesting something a little more manageable, but Boone insisted he could handle it.

"Can't be that much bigger than your fist," he said, and he had a point. She'd put all sorts of interesting things in his ass, there was no reason to lose her nerve now.

Boone wasn't much to look at, but he made a pretty picture lashed to the bed, legs spread wide, ass in the air. Cass felt more than a little ridiculous with a massive glass cock jutting from her hips, but as soon as she put it on, he was hard.

She tied him down, her motions made awkward by the unaccustomed weight of the strap-on. Boone squirmed impatiently while she tested the restraints, breaking out into gooseflesh whenever the dildo brushed his skin. She stilled him with a cool finger pressed against his spine.

"You alright?"

He grunted.

"That an affirmative, private?" She rubbed the small of his back, a reflexive soothing gesture.

"Your hands're cold," he muttered.

"You okay?"

"Yes ma'am."

Satisfied, she tightened the knots and knelt between his spread legs. She started with two fingers loaded with grease, eased them into his ass. He tensed at the intrusion, clenching then relaxing as she pushed deeper into him. She scissored, and he hmmmm'd in satisfaction while she loosened him up.

They'd developed a good routine over the past five months-she added additional fingers and grease as he relaxed, he twitched when she brushed his prostrate, biting his lip to keep from crying out. She was gentle in her ministrations, almost affectionate, pausing every so often to make sure he was okay. He always responded with a curt "yes ma'am," and she rewarded him with little pats and kisses.

When he was loose enough that she could slip her whole hand inside him, she asked if he was ready. He nodded, but she held off until she heard him say it with his own mouth. "'M ready," he muttered. "Fuck me." He added a "please," as an afterthought, then called her "ma'am," for completeness' sake.

She put one hand on the bed to steady herself, and pressed the head of the dildo against his ass with the other. She slipped it into him, bracing for his response.

He paused. "Is it in?"

"Just the tip."

"Christ, Cassidy-"

She swatted him. " _Ma'am,_ " she corrected. "I don't wanna hurt you."

The ropes restricted his movements, but he thrust back against her, taking another half inch. A moan escaped his lips, and she sighed. "I'm gonna go slow. Tell me if it doesn't feel right."

She eased it into him, giving it to him inch by inch, until it was in to the hilt. His face was pressed into the bedspread, but when her skin was flush against his ass, he squeaked. He glared at her stifled giggle, but when she started thrusting, his indignation gave way to pleasure.

Boone wasn't a quiet lover, but she'd never heard him moan like he did while her cock was in his ass. The sound went right through her, resonating in her cunt. She found herself wishing she'd asked Michelangelo to put something on her end of the dick to tickle her clit while she fucked Boone's ass. She loved the sight of him thrashing against the restraints, but her pussy was aching from neglect. She grit her teeth and reached around to jerk Boone off. As soon as he finished, she could take care of herself.

He didn't last very much longer, coming with a long shuddering sigh and painting her hand and his belly with semen. She fucked him through it, and as soon as he was done, she pulled out and undid the leather buckles holding the cock in place. She dropped it on the bedspread and crawled around Boone's prone form, positioning herself in front of his waiting mouth.

He was a good boy, and she was so jacked up that she came almost immediately, chipped fingernails digging into his meaty scalp. She rode out her orgasm on his tongue, yelling shamelessly while he sucked insistently at her clit.

She untied him on autopilot, then curled up against him. "Worth the wait?" she muttered.

She could practically feel him grinning against her neck. "Yes ma'am."


	2. Three Sheets to the Wind, Arcade/Boone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _doc gannon and boone drinking away their stress and sorrows at the wrangler and getting a dirty sweat-stained room for gross sloppy drunk whisky-dicked frot_
> 
> [Original post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=11829774)
> 
> Kinks: frottage, voyeurism, masturbation, substance

Boone was drunk when he knocked on Arcade's door, but it was alright because Arcade was drunk, too. They'd been circling one another for weeks, just a couple of junkyard dogs. It was inevitable that something should happen to break the tension between them, and going by the look in Boone's eyes, Arcade thought he knew what it'd be.

So he poured each of them another drink, and less than thirty minutes later, they ended up on the bed together. The foreplay was every bit as combative as Arcade had hoped it would be, snarls and scowls while they undid their flies and worked out who would be on top. Arcade came very close to biting Boone, but changed his mind at the last minute. He ended up kissing his collarbone instead, and if he thought that would be less weird than biting him, it wasn't. It was too much too soon and it stopped Boone in his tracks. For a moment, neither of them moved. The muffled bar noises floated up from below, and Arcade suddenly found himself wishing he'd gone with his first impulse and rented the robowhore.

FISTO probably didn't care about awkward collarbone kisses. FISTO was programmed to please.

Boone forewent the rest of the foreplay and caught their half-hard cocks in his fist. He moved his hips and his hands artlessly, creating a sensation that was not unpleasant. Arcade resolved not to make the evening any worse for the two of them, and laid back and attempted to relax. His mind was going a thousand miles per minute, but at length he managed to shut down all the extraneous thoughts and focused exclusively on what Boone was doing between his legs.

Boone's movements were growing more erratic. Between his posture and his facial expression and his tempo, Arcade could tell that he was close. Sure enough, he came a few strokes later, his semen leaking out from between his fingers. He withdrew immediately, leaving Arcade shivering on the bed while he wiped his hands on his pants and packed his dick away.

He stood back a few steps, and Arcade realized that Boone intended to watch him finish himself off. For a few brief seconds, his spite wrestled with his libido, and he considered rolling over and going to sleep and denying Boone his show. In the end, he decided he was hornier than he was proud, and he brought himself to climax while Boone watched with all the verve and passion of an industrial tumble dryer.

He was almost clinical in his detachment, and Arcade managed to tie that in with a juvenile fantasy about an attractive teacher he'd had during his first year of training with the Followers. If he just pretended that Boone was a dispassionate researcher and the setting was a laboratory instead of the Courier's room at the Atomic Wrangler. It almost worked for him, and he got himself off without too much more fuss.

After Arcade finished, Boone left without another word. The entire encounter had been staggeringly unerotic, but hot in its own weird way. Arcade was too drunk and too tired to devote much more thought to it, but his last thought before he fell asleep was a stomach-dropping realization: he and Boone hadn't actually managed to make things any less awkward and terrible between them.

Well, fuck.


	3. Plea for a Fallen Woman, Cass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _I want stories involving the characters set in the wild west of old, with whatever adjustments you find necessary!_
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4875.html?thread=11332875#t11332875)
> 
> Kinks: Historical AU

The city of Boot River, Texas, was not without its scandals. The most controversial of its two thousand residents was doubtless Miss Cassidy-her daddy had been a Texas Ranger before he got hisself killed in the Mexican War (no body had ever been recovered, and Miss Cassidy insisted that he was still alive, though she was quite happy to collect his pension). Her mother had been baptized into the Christian church for love of Miss Cassidy's father, though she had died of a fever sometime after her daughter's 16th birthday.

Miss Cassidy had her father's red hair and her mother's high cheekbones. She was what was euphemistically referred to as a 'prairie dove,' having eloped with a gold miner after her mother's death. No one saw neither hide nor hair of her for years, until the day she breezed back into town with a bare ring finger and the deed to a Californian gold mine.

Her unexpected homecoming gave rise to a flurry of rumors. Whether you considered the rumors of divorce or murder to be more scandalous was dependent largely upon whether you attended mass or church on Sunday. Miss Cassidy rented herself a room in the boarding house and never again mentioned her erstwhile husband. She lived comfortably off the income from her mine and spent her days drinking in Moriarty's Saloon and shunning the advances of men willing to overlook her sordid past in order to acquire her considerable wealth.


	4. El Coche, F!Courier/Raul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Soooooooooo I would assume that being a mechanic and having lived in an era where automobiles actually worked, Raul probably knows how to drive a car. So what if during their travels Raul and the Courier find an old car that actually still runs? Maybe he could teach them to drive, since having a car would definitely help them get around the wasteland faster.  
>  I'm looking for something lighthearted, but if you want to take it a completely different direction go for it! I'm good with either. What I do want for sure is some banter. Lots of banter. Also, if you're willing to take it one step further, maybe you could work in some.......car sex? (≖‿≖)_
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5459.html?thread=10878035#t10878035)
> 
> Kinks: Ghouls, car sex, handholding

They were headed east from Red Rock Canyon when they found it; a car, overgrown with weeds and half-hidden from view. Martha would have walked right past the crumbling garage with its sagging plaster, but the glint of the hood ornament in the evening sun caught Raul's eye. He walked off the road to investigate, and Martha followed him, two steps behind.

The garage was attached to a tumbledown gas station-the roof had buckled under its own weight, and the entire building listed to the side. The paint had largely flaked off under the intensity of the Mojave sun, but traces of the original color (Poseidon Energy's trademark blue) were still visible in places. The only thing more or less intact was the Poseidon Energy sign, standing off to the side like a sentinel.

To Martha's untrained eyes, the car didn't look to be in much better condition. The windows were filthy and cracked, and the body panels were bare metal, dented and rusty. She peered through the window as Raul patted the hood, and was dismayed to see the vinyl and leather interior was rat-gnawed, water stained, and sagging. The key was in the ignition, but it looked like it might snap off before it turned.

"I never thought I'd see another one of these," he said, reverently.

Martha was more skeptical. "What is it?"

"It's a Chryslus Highwayman." He lifted the hood and stared speculatively at the engine. She looked over his shoulder, but couldn't make sense of the mess of pistons and vacuum tubes. "And in near-mint condition."

She stood back, looked again at the car. "There ain't a speck of paint left on it."

He tsk'd. "That's not what matters, Chica."

"I ain't been a 'chica' for forty years, viejo" she muttered.

He ignored her, and continued his inspection. Martha fished a cigarette from the pack in her back pocket and lit up while he checked the fan belt and dipstick. She watched him while he worked, enjoying the companionable silence that fell between them. She decided that she preferred his company to that of her other hires (Gannon and Cassidy talked too much, Boone not enough, Lily made her feel like a child, and Veronica made her feel old). There was a neat overlap in their worldviews and experiences, but their skill sets diverged enough to be complimentary. She kept most enemies at a distance with her carbine and he took care of the ones that slipped through her perimeter.

He was like a gunslinger out of a pulpy western and a skilled mechanic to boot. He maintained their equipment while she hunted rabbit and coyote and turned their flesh into something almost edible. She was a better hunter than cook, but Raul didn't complain.

For that alone, he was her favorite.

Raul stepped back from the car and wiped the grease off his hands just as she finished her cigarette. "I think she'll run," he said. "Let's get her on the road, see if she's got any juice left."

She dropped the butt, ground it out beneath her boot heel. "Don' it need gas or something?"

"The Highwayman is battery-operated. All she needs is a few of those energy cells."

She sighed, dropped her pack, and rooted around for the flour sack with the energy cells. She tossed it underhand, then straightened up again, rubbing her back.

"Gannon'll kill me if he finds out I stuck all his energy cells into some old piece of junk." She stepped forward to watch over his shoulder, get a better idea of what he was working on.

"Don't tell him. Doc doesn't need to know everything we get up to out here." The Highwayman's battery was housed in a metal box, mounted above the engine block. Raul pulled a Philips' head screwdriver out of a pocket and loosened the screws holding the cover in place. Wordlessly, she reached out, and he deposited the screws in her hand, one-by-one, then lifted the cover off.

The energy cells already in the battery were corroded and stuck fast to the black metal, but Raul pried them loose with the screwdriver. He dropped the spent cells on the ground and pulled replacements from the sack. He filled each of the slots and replaced the cover, screwing it back into place with flourish.

He stepped back. "That should do it, Chica. I'll let you do the honors."

She couldn't keep the horror from her voice. "You want me to drive this thing?"

"I want you to see if it'll turn on. Get in."

The door had nearly rusted shut. It took their combined efforts to get it open, but once she was sitting behind the wheel, she thought she understood some of Raul's eagerness.

She put her hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. "What now?"

"Keep your foot on the left pedal and turn the key to get her going. Don't touch the lever behind the wheel."

She did as she was told and was surprised when the engine turned over and coughed into life. "What now?" she called.

Raul slammed the hood, and walked around the side of the car. He climbed in the passengers' side door, and settled himself on the far end of the wide bench seat. "We drive, Chica."

He talked her through the process of shifting into first ("it's an automatic, so keep the brake down and pull the gearshift all the way-don't yank it, you don't want it to snap off!") and let her take her foot off the break. Her stomach lurched as the car jerked forward, but her trepidation was quickly replaced by elation as she felt the car respond to her commands.

With Raul's help, she turned onto the potholed road. Her heart hammered in her chest as she picked up speed. She glanced down, and realized the needle on the speedometer had nosed past 20-she panicked, and slammed on the brakes, stopping the car so suddenly that both she and Raul were thrown forward into the dashboard.

"You trying to kill me, Chica?" he wheezed, bent nearly double and clutching his chest.

Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "We were going too fast," she said.

He laughed weakly. "You don't know what fast is. Drive, Chica. Trust me, trust the car."

Against her better judgement, she let her foot off the brake. The car moved forward again, and she let it go, giving it just enough gas to send the speedometer past 25.

"Atta girl," Raul muttered, and she didn't know if he was talking to her or the car.

At some point, he had moved closer to her on the bench seat, his hand on her thigh as she navigated the broken roads. She enjoyed his proximity, enjoyed the smile playing on his cracked lips. Their eyes met in the rear view mirror, and she held his gaze for so long she nearly drove into the ditch. He reached out and jerked the wheel straight, keeping them on the road.

She blushed, but he kept his hand on her thigh and his eyes forward.

They drove until they ran out of gas in outer Vegas. The car rolled to a stop behind the El Ray Motel, and she put it in park without being reminded. She turned the ignition off, and was not at all surprised when Raul leaned in to kiss her.

They'd hooked up a few times before, usually in the 38 when the suite was empty, or in a safe room, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. But never so publicly, and never in such cramped quarters. Martha wasn't sure either of them were flexible enough to fuck in the Highwayman without cramping up. She put her hand on his chest, and gently pushed him away.

"Here? Now?"

He kissed her again before he answered. "Chica, back before the bombs fell, cars were the only place a couple a' kids could fool around."

"Ain't neither of us been kids in years," she teased, but she kissed him anyway. Even in the half-darkness, she could see the gleam in his eye. This was important to him, some small piece of his lost youth.

His hands found the straps and buckles holding her armor in place. He undressed her, stopping every so often to kiss her exposed skin, while she clutched at him and whispered his name against his chapped neck. Once he'd gotten her pants off, she rolled over and braced herself against the seat, wrapping one arm around the headrest for stability. She ground back against him, wordlessly urging him to hurry.

It took longer for him to get his jumpsuit off. He fumbled with the zipper, his stiff, arthritic fingers not cooperating. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the cool vinyl seat, and pretended she hadn't seen him struggling.

When he got the zipper down, he wasted no time in shucking off the jumpsuit and freeing his dick from his boxers. He was half-hard, but she was only half-wet, so he rubbed his cock against her labia without penetrating her. She angled her hips so his head rubbed against her clit when he moved. They rocked together like that for a while, his chest against her back, his dick rubbing up against her cunt. He kissed her neck and spoke to her in Spanish, whispering secrets and praise against her neck.

She only understood half of what he said-she'd picked up some Spanish for trading, but her grasp of the language was tenuous at best. With his lips on her neck and his cock pressed up against her, she couldn't focus. She caught individual words and scattered fragments of sentences- "Te quiero" and "belleza, but the rest was little more than beautiful noise.

He kept one hand on the dashboard to steady himself, but with his free hand, he groped for hers. When he found it, their fingers interlaced, and he squeezed her hand as he pushed up into her. She moaned, and let her head fall back against his shoulder, exposing her jaw and throat to him.

They kissed, hands clasped and bodies pressed together. He did with her what spring does with cherry trees, and she came around him, her inner muscles contracting around his cock, urging him toward his own orgasm.

He pulled out and came on her thigh. She twisted around and kissed him again, throwing them both off-balance. They fell back against the seat, arms around one another's necks, laughing quietly, not caring that the bench seat wasn't long or wide enough to accommodate their entwined bodies. The small space forced an unaccustomed intimacy upon them, and Martha found she didn't mind at all.

He wrapped a strand of her greying hair around his index finger, and kissed her again, gently. There was no lust or possessiveness in it, only quiet respect and affection.

For that alone, she loved him.


	5. Goin' Under, Veronica/Ada Straus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _I didn't realize that this was a kink of mine until I read it on another community. So there's doctors in the Wastes, right? Surely not all of them are saintly and are willing to either despoil someone brought in for treatment..... or to give a slave a lube and oil job... (blushing, glad this is anon)_
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5459.html?thread=10906963)
> 
> Kinks: Medical, Substance, Fingering, Oral

Veronica had been traveling with Six for three weeks when the Courier suddenly announced that she had "personal business" to attend to in the hills north of Nelson. She dumped Veronica in Novac with Craig Boone, her pet sniper and sometimes fuckbuddy and left orders that Boone and Veronica come after her if she was gone more than three weeks. It had been four so far, and Veronica was starting to worry that she might literally die of boredom.

She had only agreed to tag along with Six because was cute and she had wooed Veronica with the promise of adventure in New Vegas. Unfortunately, Six had turned about to be straight as an arrow and preternaturally fixated with dank, irradiated caves. Even her mad revenge fantasy had fallen by the wayside, and Veronica had spent the better part of three weeks traipsing through every cave in southern Nevada.

It was a relief when Six's Pip-boy picked up the Sierra Madre broadcast. She had given it careful consideration, then decided to go off alone to loot the infamous casino on her own. In addition to her claustrophiliac tendencies, Six was a compulsive hoarder with a weakness for shiny things.

Veronica had been glad to get left behind. She figured Six would take the time alone to work through her personal issues regarding dark, damp crevices, and be back in a week, maybe two. With the Madre's riches burning a hole in her pocket, they'd set off for New Vegas, and Veronica would finally get to see the city for herself.

It hadn't panned out that way, and Veronica was stuck in Novac, perhaps indefinitely. Boone was content to sit around and pick his teeth, she was not. She had been promised adventure, intrigue, and glamour. Novac was severely lacking in all three departments, and its abundance of dust and old people somehow failed to compensate.

Unfortunately, her suggestion to Boone that they "steal Six's identity, skip town, and live it up in Vegas" did not inspire him to embrace spontaniety. Instead, he locked himself in his hotel room and wasted a day brooding. She resigned herself to the fact that Boone had somehow managed to become an even less fun version of himself, and she turned to the townies for entertainment. She spent an enjoyable day tailing Ranger Andy and trying to convince him to wrestle her.

So she was surprised the next morning, when Boone woke her at 6:00 and told her that he'd come up with an activity for the day. Golden Geckos had been wandering into Novac from the east, and he had decided to head out to Clark Field to clear out their nests. He made them instant oatmeal for breakfast, and they set out just before 6:30. As they left town, Veronica blew a kiss to Manny in the dinosaur's mouth, which he did not return.

It was ten miles to Clark Field, over two hours on foot. They talked tactics, and by 7:00, they had hashed out a basic plan. They'd stop 50 yards short of their destination and find higher ground. Boone would pick the Geckos off, and then Veronica would go in on foot and clean up anything he'd missed while he covered her, then they'd return to Novac. If they made good time, they'd be home in time for lunch.

At 9:15, they rounded a final bend in the road and found themselves on the outskirts of Clark Field. It had been a power plant in the days before the Great War, and its massive reactors provided a steady trickle of radiation, hundreds of years later. Boone boosted Veronica up onto an overturned truck, and she pulled him up after her.

Boone fired twice into the ruins before the Geckos emerged from their dens. Once he'd lured them into the open, he dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. He worked with ruthless efficiency, and Veronica did her best to contain her boredom while he lined his shots up. Glad as she was for the change of scenery, sitting on a truck in Clark Field wasn't much more interesting than sitting in her room in Novac. She hadn't even brought a deck of cards along.

By the time Boone was satisfied that it was safe, Veronica had calculated all the prime numbers up to 271. She hopped down from the truck without waiting for his help, and dashed into the ruins. Most of the Geckos were dead, or close enough that killing them didn't provide much of a challenge. She was starting to wonder why he'd brought her along (for her sparkling wit and stunning good looks, she decided) when she heard rumbling coming from somewhere inside a pile of broken cement and rebar. She dropped into a fighting stance and crept toward the rubble.

She found a nest of young Geckos, all wide eyes and bared fangs. They were cute and they were on her before she had time to say "Boone look at babby."

It was nothing she couldn't handle, which was why she was surprised when she heard the crack of a .308 and one of the Geckos dropped like a stone. Startled, she turned towards Boone at the same second one of the Geckos leapt on her from behind. She tumbled to the ground, and rolled onto her back, growling in frustration. The Geckos swarmed her, climbing on top of her and biting at her exposed face and neck.

Her finicky, refurbished power fist required very particular conditions for operation. She couldn't punch at all from her angle, and she couldn't stand with the weight of the Geckos on her chest. She batted at the Geckos, and had almost freed herself from them when Boone took a second shot.

The bullet passed through the skull of a Gecko and lodged itself in her abdomen. The adrenaline kept her from feeling the shot until she'd knocked the remaining Geckos aside and pulled herself to her feet. She staggered back towards the truck, holding her stomach, while Boone covered her retreat.

She made it to the truck in time to catch herself against it when she collapsed. She leaned heavily against the sun-warmed aluminum, and turned to see the swarm close in. At that moment, Boone jumped down from the truck, wielding a machete. He shouted at the Geckos and slashed at them indiscriminately. He was bruised and bloodied before he managed to drive them off. Satisfied that they were gone, he turned to Veronica with a stricken look on his face.

She opened her mouth to call him a "dumb shit-idiot," but her knees buckled and she collapsed against him. He swore and set her down against the truck, arranging her hands over the wound on her abdomen. "Keep applying pressure," he muttered, before climbing back up to retrieve their gear.

She closed her eyes and laid still. This was how she died. It would have made a good poem. A beautiful young woman, alone but for the company of the desert (Boone didn't count), her dreams fading as she breathed her last, her blood red upon the broken asphalt-

A good poem and an even better cautionary tale.

If she died, she was haunting the shit out of Boone.

Boone proved himself a clumsy and inefficient nurse. He injected her with two Stimpaks before he realized they were still in range of the radiation from the old reactors. He dragged her 100 yards down the road, and injected her with a shot of Med-X and a shot of RadAway. She tried to remind him that she weighed a lot less than he did, but the Med-X kicked in and her head went all swimmy.

She didn't remember most of what happened after that. He must have picked her up and carried her back to Novac, because she only remembered snatches of the 10 mile hike. She remembered him begging her not to die, and she remembered him telling her to keep pressure on the wound. She managed to hold on until Novac, where she was entrusted to the care of one "Dr." Ada Straus, the Mojave's least licensed physician.

Straus ran her ramshackle clinic out of an abandoned house behind the Dino Dee-Lite Motel. What Straus and her operating room lacked in cleanliness, they also lacked in efficiency, lighting, and expertise. This was where Strauss laid Veronica out, murmuring reassurances like "you'll be okay, probably," and "holy shit, that's a lot of blood." She injected her with a second syringe of Med-X, and that was when Veronica's exhausted body gave up on remaining conscious.

She woke up a few hours later, sore and swathed in dirty bandages. Her vision was blurry and her head was pounding. She tried to rub her eyes, but discovered that she couldn't raise her arms. She wondered if this was a side-effect of the drugs, or if the cumulative force of Boone and Straus' joint ineptitude had permanently paralyzed her.

"Hello?" she called. "Anyone there?"

There was a clatter in the next room, and Straus appeared in the doorway, her glasses on a chain around her neck. "You're alive!" she said brightly. "None of us expected you to pull through." She crossed the room and stood by the operating table, looking down at Veronica with discomforting surprise.

"Can I get water?" she croaked.

"Of course." She left the room and returned with a bottle of water. She opened it for Veronica, and set it on the cart beside the operating table, then stood back.

"I can't get it," Veronica said, not bothering to keep the peevish note out of her voice.

"Just try," said Straus. "C'mon, what's the worst that could happen?"

Veronica stared at her for a long minute before she could even formulate a response. "I could pull my stitches out," she said. "Or collapse from all the stupid chems you people gave me. Or get an aneurysm."

"Alright, Miss Whiner. Fine. Have it your way. Here's your stupid water. I guess we'll never know what you're capable of."

She moved the water half an inch closer to Veronica.

"I hate you so much," Veronica said. "You and Boone."

"Are you even going to try?"

Veronica decided she'd rather not spend the rest of the day battling with Straus. She grit her teeth, counted to three, and forced herself to sit up. As she moved, she was hit with a wave of such intense pain that she blacked out for a second, and nearly fell off the table. Straus rushed forward to catch her, and set her back on the table. She held her for a moment, and Veronica leaned into her, grateful for the support.

Even if it was all her fault.

"Can I just have the freaking water, now?" she mumbled.

Straus frowned and stepped back. "But you almost had it on your own."

"I almost fell off the table."

"But doesn't it feel good to try?"

"No," said Veronica. "It hurts like a bitch. I got shot in the stomach, and I have a headache, my throat hurts, and everything is sore. Can you give me the water, please?"

"Fine." Straus took the bottle off the cart and pressed it directly into Veronica's hand. "There you are. Happy?"

"Thank you," Veronica said. Some of the leaden feeling had left her arms, and she was able to raise the bottle to her lips and take a drink without spilling it down her front. The water soothed her sore throat and helped to clear her head. She licked her dry lips, and clumsily set the bottle back on the cart, sloshing its contents over Straus' array of dirty syringes, forceps, and scalpels.

The doctor watched her, apparently satisfied. "Do you want to try walking?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

Since she'd woken up, Veronica hadn't given any thought to her lower body at all. Her bare legs were stretched out on the operating table in front of her, as heavy as her arms had felt. She frowned at her toes, and focused on moving them. They responded to her commands sluggishly, as if they'd really rather not.

"Yes," she reported. "Sort of."

"If you can wiggle your toes, you can walk!" Before Veronica could protest, Straus had looped an arm around her middle and turned her body so her legs were hanging off the side of the table. She put her hands on Veronica's shoulders and pulled her off the table, onto her feet.

Her knees buckled, but Strauss caught her and set her back on her feet, gently holding her upright. "See? If you can wiggle your toes, you can walk. Or at least stand. C'mon." She began to walk, and Veronica had no choice, but to stagger along after her, clinging to her for support.

They moved around the operating room, and into the clinic's main room. It had been a living room once, many years ago, but Straus had moved the furniture around and added a reception desk. Now it was a waiting room, and every bit as shabby and disgusting as the operating room had been.

Pins and needles shot through Veronica's legs with every ungainly step. The sensation was tingly, but not necessarily painful. Straus maneuvered around the desk and couches, careful not to go faster than Veronica's legs could carry her. It was almost like dancing.

Suddenly, Straus stopped short. "I'm going to let go of you," she said. "Let's see if you can walk on your own." She let go, and Veronica stumbled towards the wall. Leaning against it, she found her feet and took a step towards the center of the room, then another.

"You're fine," Straus said. "You are somehow totally fine. Congrats."

"You don't really inspire confidence," Veronica said, marveling at the sensation of walking unsupported.

"I like to keep expectations low," she said.

"And you do an excellent job of that," Veronica muttered. "Can I go now?"

Strauss shrugged. "I guess. Try not to collapse on your way back to the motel, and don't take any more chems today. Maybe Med-X, tomorrow, but have a big breakfast, first. And if you get the shakes, try not to move until they pass." There was a baggy coat on a rack by the door. "And put this on. I had to throw your other stuff away. It was all bloody and gross."

Veronica rolled her eyes. "Thanks, doc."

Strauss opened the door for her. "Yeah, whatever. Just be sure to come back before you leave town. I need that coat back."

It was dark when Veronica stumbled out of Straus' clinic. The sky was full of stars, and Veronica paused for a moment to gape up at them before she made her way around the Dino Dee-Lite to Boone's room.

His door was closed and he'd hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob. She knocked anyway, and pressed her ear up against the door. Six must have stumbled back into town while she was laid out on Straus' operating table. She could hear bedsprings squeaking, and the low rumble of voices engaged in what she imagined was the least erotic dirty talk that had ever occurred anywhere on earth.

She sighed and limped her way across the yard, towards Six's room. The stairs took ten long, painful, gasping minutes, and she was out of breath by the time she reached the door.

It was locked.

She swore.

She leaned up against the door and pulled Straus' coat around her shoulders. The night was cool, and she was practically naked beneath it. All her clothes were in Boone's or Six's room. She supposed she could go back down the stairs, barge into Boone's room, and out herself as the world's worst roommate. She could go to Cliff Briscoe's bungalow and ask for the spare key to Six's room. She liked Cliff too much to risk waking him up. And she didn't want to risk being ousted from the courier's sad little group before she made her way to Vegas. Even if they were demonstrating a complete dearth of concern for her, so soon after her brush with death. Even if Six was a selfish, obsessive-compulsive liar and Boone was a trigger happy shit-idiot with the personality of a houseplant. Even if she didn't really like either of them that much, not really. They were her best chance of making it to Vegas, and of finding a new way forward for the Brotherhood.

She sighed and lingered there a moment, looking out at the desert and enjoying the feel of the cool breeze on her skin. After strengthening her resolve, she limped back down the stairs, clinging to the hand railing, pausing after every step. The exertion raised sweat on her brow, and she was red-faced and flushed when by the time she had crossed the yard and made her way back to Ada's little clinic. The doctor lived there (she had gotten a peek of the bedroom while she was in the living room), and she was probably still awake. Veronica could spend the night there, maybe stay there until Six and Boone remembered they'd had a third companion. And when they came to collect her, she could act really pitiful, and they'd be sorry for being such massive shitheads (Boone especially).

Veronica knocked. Straus answered. "Miss me already?"

Veronica didn't wait to be invited in. She crossed the threshold, and took a seat on the couch. She sighed and swung her aching feet up onto the couch, and flexed, trying to relieve some of the soreness that had settled in her bones.

"They locked me out."

Straus sat on one of her mismatched, threadbare chairs. "Six came back while you guys were out shooting each other. And boy, is she pissed. I've never seen her so angry."

Veronica grinned. "How'd she enjoy her stay at the Sierra Madre?"

"Said it was full of 'monsters and assholes.'"

"That does sound like her."

"Also, she was looking for you. But then Boone said you were unconscious and she started screaming at him, right then and there."

"I'll bet she was even more pissed when he told her he shot me."

Straus cleared her throat. "He may have left that detail out."

"And you didn't tell her?"

She shook her head. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Boone's not your patient," Veronica said, flatly.

"Well, no, but I figured you'd want to tell her yourself."

Veronica considered. "Now that you say it, yes. Yes I do."

"I thought so." Straus smiled, then sat back on the chair, arms hooked over the back. "So, you planning to spend the night?"

"Well, you did cut me open and dig a bullet out of my stomach. Shouldn't I be held for observation?"

"Eh, probably. I'll warn you, though. I'm a shitty cook, and I don't have any of that prepackaged stuff. It's bad for you. Too much radiation."

"I'm not really hungry," Veronica said.

Straus looked her up and down. "Okay, loss of appetite is a bad sign, but you look fine. Maybe I should observe you, or whatever."

Veronica sighed. "If you weren't the only doctor in town, I would strangle you."

Straus got up and walked into her tiny kitchen. "You would not believe how many times I hear that a week," she called over her shoulder. "You want beer or water?"

"Should I be drinking?"

Straus returned with two beers and a bottle opener "Probably not."

Veronica sighed and took a bottle and the bottle opener from her. Their fingertips brushed as Straus passed the bottle to her, and the contact was accompanied by a meaningful look. Veronica nearly dropped the bottle. Was Straus coming onto her?

She put the thought out of her mind and focused on getting the top off her bottle. Her hands were still numb, from the chems and from the cold, and it took her longer than it should have to pop the cap off. She passed them back to Straus, making carful note of how long Straus' hand lingered on hers while she returned the bottle opener.

Definitely coming onto her.

 _Well_ , though Veronica, leaning back against the arm rest. _Well._

It was certainly unexpected, and didn't say much for Straus' professionalism. There were probably laws against this sort of thing, but Veronica had been flying solo for years. She was desperate for a copilot, and Straus was cute enough, and apparently interested. And ever since Six had breezed into 188 trading post (and then had the nerve to be straight and involved with a certain potato-faced shit-idiot) she'd been having a greater than average number of steamy dreams. Veronica had a lot of pent-up energy to work out, and she didn't know if she'd have another opportunity to get laid before Six lead them all to their deaths in an irradiated mine shaft.

 _Ah, what the hell_ , she thought, and leaned forward and kissed Ada.

Straus' lips were dry and chapped, but her mouth was soft against Veronica's. She wound a hand through Veronica's short hair and leaned into her, pressing their bodies together. Veronica put a steadying hand on either side of Straus' face, pulling her closer and sinking deeper into the sofa.

It wasn't the most amazing kiss in Veronica's personal history, but it was a start. Straus' weight was warm against her, and she liked the insistent tug of the hand in her hair. It was bossy but not forceful, and Veronica decided that she didn't mind, not at all.

They were both breathless when they broke apart for air. "Thank god," Straus panted. "I'm no good at flirting."

"I don't know," Veronica mumbled. "I figured it out." She pulled Straus' mouth towards her own, and they kissed again, their bodies flush. Straus kept one hand in Veronica's hair, one running up and down her body, pausing to cup her breast or stroke her thigh.

Straus was an insistent kisser, always tugging at Veronica's hair or at the lapels of her borrowed coat, always demanding more. Veronica held her close and savored the attention, her mouth going dry as Straus peeled the coat from her shoulders, leaving her bare and shivered, despite the heat pooling between her thighs.

Despite the bruising pressure of her mouth and the insistence of her hands, Straus took great care not to disturb Veronica's stitches. There was a deftness to her movements, careful attention dressed up as raw lust. She could have been a great surgeon, if she only cared as much about her patient's physical needs as their carnal ones.

Straus had been straddling Veronica's hips, her weight pressing her into the couch. Now, she went to her knees in front of Veronica, pulling the coat open the rest of the way, exposing the ratty shorts she wore beneath her robes.

"Lift your hips, beautiful," she said. Veronica did as she was told, and Straus slid her underwear down her thighs. Veronica shivered from the cold, but Straus was in no hurry to begin.

She ran her hands up and down Veronica's legs, pressing kisses to her thighs and belly. She passed over her pussy entirely, coming maddeningly close to it without touching it.

"Ada," she croaked. Her mouth was completely dry, her voice hoarse. "Ada, _please_."

"Always so impatient," she murmured, but she didn't tease any longer.

She parted Veronica's outer lips with two fingers, and immediately went to work. She ran her tongue along her slit under she found her clitoris. Veronica squeaked and moaned, her toes curling as Straus sucked her clit and fucked her with her pointer and middle fingers.

She kept up a steady rhythm, expertly applying just enough pressure to make Veronica beg. A spring was coiling in her gut, winding tighter and tighter as Straus fucked her. "Right there! Don't stop, please, don't stop, don't stop, don't-"

Straus grinned up at her and suddenly changed tactics. She ran her tongue over Veronica's slit, not concentrating her attentions on any one spot. Instead, she massaged her labia, dropping one hand to the ground to steady herself.

It was a different sort of pleasure, milder and less localized. It was maddening after what Straus had been doing-Veronica had been on the ede of coming, on the brink of the best orgasm she'd had in years. She was wound up, breathless, sweaty, and on the verge of tears

Unable to hold out any longer, she slid her own hand between her thighs, and masturbated while Straus kept up her routine. The combined attentions of Straus' mouth and her own hands pushed her over the edge. She let go of the tension, and pleasure rocketed through her body, blurring her vision and drawing a long, low moan from her lips.

Straus climbed back into her lap and kissed her fiercely as she came down. The taste of her own juices on Straus' lips and tongue was almost enough to get Veronica going again, but she'd had hers. It was Straus' turn.

Veronica reached out for Straus' hips, intending to undo her belt and fuck her brains out, but the doctor batted her hands away.

"Tomorrow," she promised, kissing Veronica's forehead. "When you're less tired."

"C'mon, just let me try."

Straus laughed, and climbed off her lap. "Now you want to try? Come on, you need to rest."

"Now you want to play responsible doctor?"

"You'll need your energy, for what I'm planning to do to you tomorrow. Trust me, we'll both have more fun if you're rested."

Veronica raised one eyebrow, a skill she'd spent years honing. "What do you have in mind?"

Straus went into the bathroom to wash her hands, and Veronica followed her. "I got a box full of toys in my bedroom, and your ass isn't going to fuck itself."

Veronica considered. "Y'know," she said, "You're the best doctor I've ever had."

"You would not believe how many times I hear that a week," she said, grinning. "And you should pee. Don't want you getting a UTI."

She left, and when Veronica was finished in the bathroom, she was in the waiting room, straightening magazines and shutting the lamps off. Veronica crept up behind her and kissed her neck.

"Seriously, though. Best doctor ever."

They fell asleep in Straus' single bed. The next morning, when Boone and Six came around to collect her, Straus refused payment.

"What can I say?" she said. "Anything for a friend." She winked at Veronica, who decided she could use a few more friends-and doctors-like Straus.


	6. Carmen, Benny/M!Courier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Benny/M!Courier, but Benny doesn't KNOW right off the bat that Courier is male. Because Courier has the androgynous look going on completely. Even crossdresses._
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=11073933#t11073933)
> 
> Kinks: Crossdressing, blowjob, anal sex

Tori's mother always said he was too pretty for a boy. His sisters were given to broad shoulders and acne, Tori had a slender build and clear, even skin. His looks were wasted on him, she said. Even the ugliest boy could find himself a wife, but ugly girls turned into ugly spinsters.

Hanna Tanaka had been a beauty queen in her day ("The Cornsilk Queen of the five county area three years running!"). She married young and miscarried twice before she bore a living child. All told, she had five living children and six stillbirths. Two of her babies died in the cradle, and the other three, Lissa, Meggie, and Tori were sickly and worrisome.

Her sorrows soured her. No one was surprised when her husband ran off with a caravan guard.

Hanna was thirty-four, mother to two homely daughters and a pretty son, and all alone in the world. She raised the children without tenderness, and her girls left her as soon as they were able. (Lissa defied her mother's predictions and married a soldier boy and Meggie up and left with the Followers of the Apocalypse.)

Tori stayed behind. He exchanged letters with his sisters (Lissa was mother to four fat, homely children; Meggie was a midwife in the Boneyard) and cared for Hanna as her eyes failed and her joints went stiff. She died a month shy of her sixtieth birthday, and Tori was suddenly alone in the world.

He fell in love with a pimp in New Reno. Alex Maceda was a hard man with soft hands. He dressed Tori in women's clothing and sold him to strangers. Tori found he liked wearing dresses and pumps. Rouge and lipstick made him feel _pretty_ , even when he was coming down off a Jet high, runs in his stockings and semen in his hair.

He left Alex Maceda after two years of putting up and putting out. They had a fight, and Tori ran away. He ended up in the Followers' camp, and the doctors loaded him up with Fixer and lied to Alex when he came looking for him. They sent him south with a caravan. He traveled with them for six months, and eventually signed up with the Mojave Express.

For six years, he worked as a courier. It didn't pay as well as whoring, but he was his own man for the first time in years. He wasn't turning over his money to Alex Maceda, wasn't doing Jet because he didn't know if he'd last without it. His vices became his own, rather than extensions of the man he thought he'd loved.

He ordered another martini and frowned at a chip in his nail polish. He'd had two so far, and he'd taken a hit of Jet earlier that evening. He was buzzed, but not high yet. But if he kept going through martinis at the this rate, he wouldn't be able to walk his drunk ass out of the casino after he'd stuck a knife in Benny.

He'd been at the Tops for hours, lingering at the bar, waiting for him. He'd painted his face and slicked back his hair, put on his best dress and painted his nails. For nothing. Benny was nowhere to be seen.

His dress was silver sequins with a low neck. He felt impossibly glamorous, sitting in a New Vegas cocktail lounge, impeccably made up and dressed to the nines. Impossibly glamorous and impossibly bored. As much as he enjoyed playing the coquette, he had a score to settle. He'd gone to all the trouble of hiding a knife under his slinky dress, and Benny was a no-show.

He smoothed the shimmering fabric of his dress over his thighs and flagged down a waitress to ask where his drink was.

The waitress, a plain-faced blonde girl with a pin-up figure, said she didn't know a thing about his martini, but the older gentlemen in the corner wanted to know if he'd made plans for that evening.

She spoke monotonously and without enthusiasm. Tori suspected she was no more than thirty minutes from the end of a long shift, and he told her not to worry about the drink.

Instead, he glanced around the lounge. There was an impeccably dressed older man sitting in the far corner, looking hopefully at him.

He considered for a moment. A small part of his brain, the part still stuck in a back alley of New Reno, scrutinized the man with a whore's eye-he was clean-shaven, and the suit screamed money. A lousy lay, but a generous tipper.

Tori shook his head. No. That wasn't who he was any more. The man looked away, obviously disappointed, and Tori tried not to look in his direction.

The waitress arrived with his drink a few moments later. Tori thanked her and decided that he'd give it another 15 minutes before packing it in for the night.

At that moment, the door to the lounge banged open dramatically, and Benny entered, flanked by a cadre of bodyguards and still wearing the same ridiculous checkered suit. Tori swallowed nervously and watched him out of the corner of his eye.

Benny pinched the waitress' bottom and put his arm around her. She bore his attention with the same staunch disdain she'd used to answer Tori's questions, and she instantly became his favorite person in the casino.

Benny glowered at her and stalked away. Tori popped the olive from his martini into his mouth, and wished he'd ordered something with a cherry. He could do all sorts of interesting things with a cherry stem, knots being the least of his considerable talents.

It was a skill set he cultivated for situations exactly like the one he was in.

He swallowed the olive whole and ran his finger around the rim of his glass, collecting the residual moisture. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked.

Every eye in the lounge was on him, including Benny's. Tori smirked to himself. He spun the barstool so he was facing out, into the lounge, then bent double to adjust his stocking. When he'd straightened up, Benny was sitting on the stool next to his.

"Hey girlie. You new, doll?"

Tori looked him up and down. "I think I'd remember you," he purred. His heart was hammering in his chest, but Benny didn't seem to recognize him-not that he should. He'd killed a man, he was flirting with a "woman."

"What room are you in, doll? If you get lonely, the Benman can swing 'round tonight, keep you company."

"Oh," he said, "I'm not. I was supposed to meet someone here tonight." He didn't mention that the 'someone' was Benny.

"Only a fink would leave a pretty girl like you all alone. Pussycat, you need a real man."

"I don't suppose you'd know where I could find one?"

Benny clutched his heart theatrically. "You wound me, baby."

"That's not all I'd like to do to you." Tori smiled and dropped his eyes to Benny's crotch.

"Oh? Do go on."

It was Tori's turn to fake umbrage. "And spoil the surprise?" His final smile was all teeth.

Benny chuckled. "Why don't you come up to my suite, doll? I'll show you a few things."

"I suppose I can do that," Tori said.

"Platinum," he said, leaning in for a kiss. "Let's roll, pussycat."

They left the bodyguards in the cocktail loungem and made their way towards the elevators together, Benny's hand on the back of Tori's neck. His hands were rough, calloused, and Tori started to get a little excited in spite of himself. Don't go mixing business with pleasure, said the sensible part of him. At the same time, he wild part said what could it hurt?

The elevator doors had barely closed behind them when Benny started grinding on him. Tori immediately turned around and braced himself against the wall, offering Benny his ass instead of his growing hard-on.

Benny held tight to Tori's hips, distractedly mashing the button for the 13th floor with a free hand. He ground his cock against Tori's ass, covering his neck and jaw with kisses.

"I want you," he gasped, "Wanna fuck you."

"I want your cock," Tori moaned, and he wasn't lying. "I want your cock, I want your cock, I want-"

Tori was sweaty and hard when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Benny took him by the hand and led him to his rooms. He got the door open and pushed Tori through it, closing and locking it with one swift motion.

Tori fell on all fours just inside the door, and Benny was on him in an instant, rubbing his cock against his ass. "You ready for this, pussycat? You ready for me?"

"Yes, god yes," Tori moaned. "Please, fuck me, please."

Benny undid his fly and pulled his pants down just enough to pull out his cock. He stroked himself with one hand while hiking Tori's dress up under his thighs.

Suddenly, he stopped cold. Tori twisted around to see what was wrong, and he realized he'd forgotten about the knife he'd strapped to his thigh.

"Pussycat," he said, coldly, "What's this?"

"Shit," Tori said, "I can explain, it's-"

Benny stood up, knife in hand. Tori rolled onto his back and scrambled away from him, Benny did a double take.

"And what," he said, "Is that?" He pointed, with the knife, to Tori's erection. "Seems like you got all kinds of things under that dress, girlie," he sneered.

Suddenly, his eyes bugged out. "Oh my god," he said. "You're- you're dead."

"Not quite," Tori said.

This was the moment he'd been waiting for. He'd pictured it a little differently, but this was it. All his months of planning, all those hours spent choosing a dress and perfecting his makeup, and it all came down to this moment.

Benny backed away, and Tori knew he'd have to act quick. He got up onto his knees and pinned Benny against the closed door. He took Benny's swollen cock into his mouth. He reached up and pulled back his foreskin, then swirled his tongue along the tip, using his hands to work the shaft.

Benny let off a violent stream of expletives. Satisfied, Tori started bobbing his head along Benny's dick, until he was getting his entire length in his mouth on each pass. He pulled his own dick out of his black lace panties, and began to masturbate.

Tori climaxed immediately, his come dripping between his fingers. He moaned around Benny's cock and felt it twitch in response. He took Benny even deeper into his mouth, tongue working furiously along the underside of his cock.

Suddenly Benny wound a hand through his hair and pulled him off his dick. "Stop," he wheezed, "Stop, I can't take it anymore."

Tori's cheeks were flushed, his throat burning. "fuck me," he begged. "Come on my face. Make me yours."

"Christ, baby, Quit saying shit like that. I'm going to finish before I start."

"What did you have in mind?" Tori asked.

"You do anal?" he said, bluntly.

Tori scoffed. "'Course I do. You got lube?"

"In my bedroom." He moved Tori aside gently, and stepped into the next room. "Lean up against the bar," he called. "And leave the dress and shit on."

Tori did as he was told. When Benny came back out, he was naked and had an armload of little jars and tubes. He’d left the knife in the bedroom, and Tori breathed a private sigh of relief, then twisted around to watch him roll a condom over his dick, then rub himself down with something from a little red jar.

He took two fingers full of the stuff, and slid them in Tori's ass. He wiggled them around, loosening tight muscles and slicking him up. Benny spoke only to hush him. Tori did his best to stay silent, but once or twice, Benny brushed up against his prostate, drawing another string of curses and pleas from his lips.

Benny spanked him when he cried out. "I can't focus with you moaning like that," he rumbled, before pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.

Tori's arms were numb by the time Benny decided he was ready. But when he finally eased himself into his ass, Tori forgot all rational thought. He moaned and pleaded with Benny, grinding back against him to take more of his cock. Benny held him still pressed up between the bar and his own body, slamming into him with toe-curling force.

"Please!" he cried. "More! Oh god, more, please more."

He was hard again, and Benny started jerking him off as he fucked him. He didn't last any longer than he had the first time, spraying Benny's hand with semen.

Benny's thrusts were growing more erratic. He was losing control of himself, and Tori encouraged him with pleas and gasps. Benny slumped against him, shuddering and moaning. Tori rocked back against him, the twisting around to kiss him.

Benny lingered a moment, and Tori savored the contact, crushed between the hard, cold bar and the warmth of Benny's bare skin. He kissed him again, lazily, affectionately.

Tori didn't know how they made it to the bed, but they did. Benny was half-asleep by the time they arrived, but managed to mumble "hold me, will you?" before he passed out. Tori realized Benny had left the knife on the bedside table, along with his clothes and his custom handgun.

He considered for a moment, and decided not to. Another day, perhaps. Today, he would fall asleep in Benny's arms, warm, comfortable, and still wearing his slinky silver cocktail dress.


	7. Liquor, I HARDLY KNOW HER, Gen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _The companions play 'Never Have I Ever.'_
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=12025102#t12025102)
> 
> Kinks: None

Cass was drunk long before Veronica suggested they play a friendly round of 'Never Have I Ever,' but Arcade couldn't tell if that was a handicap or an unfair advantage. 10 PM, and she'd been drinking since noon: wine, whiskey, and gin, all straight from the bottle. By his estimate, she'd drunk enough to kill a man twice her size three times over, but Cass was still upright, still speaking clearly, and still capable of making him squirm.

"What do you mean you've never heard of the rusty trombone? You been living under a rock, Gannon?"

He tried to formulate a response, but the drink had slowed his wits, and he wasn't able to get in a response before Veronica jumped on the 'Humiliate Arcade Gannon' bandwagon.

Ronnie was even drunker than he was, and didn't manage to do much more than hiss "Virgiiiiiin" before dissolving into helpless giggles, but the spirit was willing, even if the flesh was weak and saturated in cheap vodka.

"Come on _Niñero_ , even I've heard of that one," Raul chided.

Arcade could feel himself blushing. He tried, really tried to come up with a scathing retort, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was "fuck you guys, I've got a pure heart," which wasn't even the stupidest thing he'd said over the course of the evening.

Cass hooted with laughter and practically fell out of her chair, but composed herself for long enough to say, "Whatever, Blondie. You can clutch your pearls later. S'your turn."

Arcade sat back in his sofa (a mistake, the motion set the room to spinning). "Never have I ever," he said, drawing each word out. He suddenly found himself wishing he'd paid more attention while filling out intake forms. The Junkies had some great stories, if only he could remember the sordid details.

Three sets of eyes bored into his skull. He couldn't think. "Jumped off a roof," he blurted.

Cass groaned, and took a shot, along with Raul. They turned on Veronica in unison. "No roofs where you're from, girlie?" Cass said, at the same time Raul muttered "liar."

Veronica was slurring like she'd forgotten consonants existed, but Arcade thought she was probably using her time-honored "I grew up in a hole in the ground!" defense, which she'd used at least three times that evening (it had been her excuse for never having eaten molerat, patronized a strip club, or blown up an outhouse).

"I've got a good one," Raul said, brightly. "Never have I ever made sex tape."

Arcade took a shot, Cass started in on mocking Raul ("Ain't nobody wants to see you gettin' it in, Grandpa") until she realized that Arcade had drunk.

"Wait what? You made porn?" she said, eyes boggling.

"Not good porn," he said, weakly.

"All porn is good porn," Cass said (Raul and Veronica voiced objections to her claim, one considerably more coherently than the other). "Was it sexy? Did you get paid?"

"I was twenty-one. It was just a holo of an old boyfriend and I-"

"Playing the rusty trombone?" Raul said, waggling his non-existent eyebrows.

Cass exploded into laughter and Veronica actually slid off the couch and curled into a ball, shaking with giggles. Raul just kept waggling his eyebrows while Arcade slid onto the floor to check Veronica's vitals and tip her into recovery position.

"Fuck you guys," he muttered.

"Only if we can film it!" Cass shrieked.


	8. Round One, Butch/F!LW, Brock/F!LW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Any/any, cuckolding_.
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=12462606#t12462606)
> 
> Kinks: cuckolding, masturbation, rough sex, oral sex, fingering

It was past midnight when they reached Rivet City. When they'd come round the bend in the road and caught sight of the old ship, the sight of it was near enough to make Butch weep. Two weeks they'd been on the road, walking southeast from Oasis and taking the time to search every abandoned diner, grocery store, and vending machine they passed in search of the 'purple Nukas' for some batshit lady in Girdershade. Butch wasn't in the habit of backsassing Audrey, not since he'd seen what she could do with that laser pistol of hers, but traipsing all over hell's half-acre for every idiot who asked them to wasn't what he'd had in mind when he reformed the Tunnel Snakes.

There was nothing badass or particularly exciting about extracting children and dogs from wells or whatever and watching Audrey haggle over the reward money was even less badass and exciting. Beneath her tough, Waster exterior beat the nerdy heart of an accountant, and Butch was ready to mutiny. He'd forced Audrey to make the stopover in Rivet City on their way to the Ranger Compound, and he'd had to beg and plead for that much. Audrey had some peculiar ideas about 'making good time,' even when their primary objective was to dick around the wastes and look for pop bottles and new landmarks.

And books. God, the books. Butch had always hated books, but Audrey's stint as Brotherhood go-fer had turned his ordinary disdain into a sharp, keening hatred like a knife to the gut.

Audrey signaled to whoever was manning the bridge. While they waited for the creaking metal gangplank to swing 'round, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him, gently. "I'm going to the Weatherly, alright?" she said, meaning the Weatherly Hotel, her usual lodgings whenever they spent the night in Rivet City. She was too good for the bunks in the common rooms, too good to spend the night on the pallets in the Muddy Rudder, like Butch.

"Alright," he said. "I'll be at the corner table in the Rudder, if you need me." This was their usual meeting spot, and Audrey nodded, a faint smile playing on her full lips.

He kissed her good-bye just as the bridge shrieked and groaned into place and they set off separately for their destinations. Audrey moved much quicker than Butch, eager to get to the bed and bath that was waiting for her in her usual room at the Weatherly. Butch sauntered, falling into place ten steps behind her, admiring the swing of her hips and the curve of her ass beneath her leather armor.

The Muddy Rudder was exactly as he remembered it: sickly fluorescent lights, cueless pool tables with scratched felt and missing balls, the creak of the ship's metal walls. There was the usual ammonia tang in the air (he wasn't certain whether the smell was cleaners or piss and he wasn't brave enough to ask Bonny which) and the usual late-night crowd. Sister, the slaver; a few off-duty guards; and Belle Bonny herself, resplendent in rags behind the bar.

She glanced over at the sound of the bell over the door, looked Butch up and down, and heaved a showy sigh. "You want the usual, then?" she said sourly, as Butch approached the bar, caps in hand. He nodded, somewhat abashedly, and she hocked a wad of something into the coffee tin she'd repurposed as a spittoon. "Everybody out," she called, her thin, sharp voice cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and murmuring voices. "We're shutting down."

There was grumbling, and more than one of Belle's patrons glared at Butch on their way out the door. He ignored them and tried for nonchalance, checking his reflection in a dinged, stainless steel napkin dispenser and smoothing his hair.

"You'll be wanting Brock, then." Butch nodded again and Bonny harrumped. She spat again, missing the spitton by a wide margin. She stomped out from behind the bar and made her way to the back room, cursing up a storm, while Butch retreated to his usual spot at the shadowy corner table. He checked his reflection in another dispenser, wishing his combs and pomade weren't in Audrey's back in her respectable hotel room.

Brock shambled out of the back room a few minutes later, still dressed in his armor but rubbing his eyes tiredly. He slumped against the wall and yawned broadly, not noticing or not caring that Butch was his only customer. Maybe he hadn't seen Butch at all, or maybe he just liked pretending not to. Maybe it was all part of the fantasy for him.

Butch liked his lips and watched Brock stretch. He was handsome, well-built, older by maybe 15 years. A little snake of envy wriggled in Butch's gut. He settled back in the vinyl booth, tugging at the collar of the white t-shirt he wore beneath his Vault suit and Tunnel Snakes jacket. She wouldn't be long, now.

Right on cue, the door to the main deck opened and Audrey appeared, dressed in a pink pre-War dress that nipped in at her waist and flared out over her hips. She'd done something to her hair in the 15 minutes since they'd kissed good-bye, loosened it from its knot and made it shine with some sort of oil or cream. Butch loved Audrey's hair, loved the things she did with it when she had the energy and inclination to fuss over her kinky curls. He loved it up, too, twisted into a knot on the crown of her head, but loose, it looked like a lion's mane.

Both men straightened up a little at Audrey's entrance, squared their shoulders and sucked in their guts. She ignored Butch in his dark corner and fixed Brock with a flirtatious smile. She took a seat at the bar, raking her curls back off her face to expose the fine, dark line of her neck and jaw. Butch imagined he could smell her perfume, the expensive, pre-War scent she insisted on salvaging whenever they came across a bottle. He'd tried telling her that old, fancy perfumes were made with whale puke (and it was true, he'd read it in one of her god-damned lousy rotten books), but she'd called him a hypocrite and reminded him of all the times they'd stopped to scour a druggists' for hairnets or an unmolested tin of Dapper Dan.

Brock offered her a drink, something red and sweet with one perfect cherry floating in it, and Audrey accepted with a wink and a smile. Instead of drinking it, she fished the cherry out of the glass by its stem (and where the hell had Brock found a cherry, Butch wanted to know)and popped it into her mouth whole. The look on her face was one of pure, orgasmic bliss while she savored the cherry. Brock grinned, resting his elbows on the bar and grinning. A bead of sweat ran down Butch's temple and she shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Finished with the cherry, Audrey spit the pit onto the floor and let the stem fall next to it. She took a sip from the drink, and set it back down on the bar. She smiled again, her mouth stained red.

Brock leaned across the bar and kissed her. She leaned into the kiss, wrapping a hand around his head and pulling him close. Brock steadied himself against the bar, bracing himself with one hand while he settled the other on her shoulder before running it down her back to rest on her hip.

Butch leaned forward, his mouth dry.

When they broke the kiss, Audrey's hair was mussed and she was breathing heavily, her lips parted. Brock was grinning again, and he leaned across the bar to whisper something into her ear. She shuddered, her eyes fluttering closed.

Butch imagined that Brock was telling her what he was going to do to her, imagined his voice was low and hoarse, a low rumble capable of raising gooseflesh on Audrey's arms. His own voice was nothing impressive, he'd never been able to make her melt from words alone. She'd never complained, but he knew she savored the effect Brock had on her.

Audrey settled back on her stool, panting, and Brock walked around the bar to take the seat next to hers. He kissed her again, tugging her to her feet so she stood over him. He reached down and touched her shapely calf and ran his hand up her leg, lifting her skirt and tantalizing Butch with a glimpse of her thigh.

Butch's view was obscured by Audrey's full, crinolined skirt, but Brock must have moved his hand from her leg to her cunt, because she jumped and gasped. He imagined Brock's hand between her legs, imagined him parting her labia and running his calloused thumb up and down her pussy, imagined him drawing little circles around her clit. Audrey bit her lips to keep quiet, but a moan slipped out and Brock kissed her breastbone.

He kept at it, finger fucking her while she trembled and leaned against him for support, her fist pressed to her mouth. The smell of her wet cunt drifted to him across the bar, buoyed by stale air currents. His mouth went dry and his dick perked up; he shrugged his jacket off and undid the zipper on his Vault suit.

Audrey came suddenly, with a shriek Butch was certain Bonny could hear, even behind her office's closed door. Brock shushed her and steadied her, kissing her again before gently pushing her to her knees. She undid his fly with eager, trembling hands, and freed his erection from his boxers. His cock looked like a battering ram, and Butch shivered in jealous anticipation.

Brock fisted his hand in Audrey's hair and pulled her head forward. With his other hand, he guided his dick to her lips. For a moment, she refused to open her mouth, so he ran the sensitive head of his cock over her closed lips, still holding her in place by her hair.

She opened her mouth and her pink tongue darted out, tasting the tip of his fat cock. He took advantage of her parted lips and forced his dick into her mouth, being rougher than Butch would have dared. He worked his Vault suit down off his shoulders. His cock was aching from neglect, rock-hard and straining against his boxers and his leather suit. He ran a hand over his clothed crotch, masturbating through his clothes. He was holding off, deliberately torturing himself. He wanted to savor this, the sight of Audrey on her knees, prettily sucking cock, wanted to savor the envy churning in his gut. He lived for this moment of anticipation.

Audrey and Brock had worked out a good rhythm, him thrusting into her mouth, her pressing forward, trying to take every inch of him. They were both breathing hard, chests rising and falling more or less in time with his thrusts. Her eyes were locked on his, silently pleading with him. _More,_ Butch imagined her thinking, _More, I want your cock._

"Just like that, girl," Brock grunted. "Oh god."

She broke free of his hold somehow, wrenching herself away from his dick. She lunged forward and somehow got her mouth around his balls. Brock screwed up his face with the strain of not coming, his grip white-knuckled in her hair. His cock twitched and bobbed with Audrey's movements, pre-come dribbling down into Audrey's hair.

He pulled her away, leading her by her hair. He hauled her roughly to her feet, his enormous cock still glistening with saliva and pre-come, and bent her over one of the tables, kicking an errant chair out of the way. He hiked her skirts up over her waist (Butch realized she wasn't wearing any panties, and the shock went straight to his dick) and thrust into her without ceremony.

Audrey squeaked as he drove it home, each thrust driving her forward onto the table. She scrabbled for a grip on the smooth formica surface, fighting to brace herself while Brock pounded into her, grunting and moaning each time his cock delved into her.

It was a fight for Butch to free his own dick from its cotton prison, but he managed it just in time for Audrey's tits to pop out of her dress. Brock reached around and squeezed, his nails digging into her soft flesh, and she gasped, eyes rolling back in her head.

She somehow got a hold on the table, pushing back against Brock's increasingly frantic thrusts. Her face was screwed up and his mouth was pressed up against her ear, whispering unknowable, filthy secrets. Butch spat in his palm and closed his fist around his cock, pumping himself in time to Brock's thrusts. He'd waited so long that he'd nearly given himself blue balls, so he wrapped his other hand around the base of his cock, gently squeezing to try and dull some of the sensation, willing himself not to come immediately.

"God," Audrey moaned, "Give it to me, please. Harder! God! Christ!" She was practically screaming, sweat running down her face and neck, between her bouncing tits. Brock fumbled and managed to get his hand on her breast, squeezing. At the same time, he bit into her shoulder, seemingly to keep himself from crying out.

Audrey shrieked, letting herself come a second time. Brock rode out her orgasm, thrusting while she shook and shuddering around his cock. Her skirts and the table obscured Butch's view somewhat, but from Brock's motions, Butch thought he was pulling out to come on her ass. Butch imagined the other man's cum running down the curve of Audrey's ass, dripping down her thighs, mingling with the juices from her cunt. He pictured the bruises Brock's hands and mouth would leave, marks of possession on her neck and tits and collarbone. He thought about Audrey's empty pussy, clenching around nothing, sore but aching for Brock's long, thick cock.

He came with a suppressed moan, ejaculate running through his fingers and dripping down onto his pants. He was stiff and sore and sticky, still jittery. The bar smelled like sex, Audrey's and his and Brock's, sweat and sex. He packed his cock away, wiped his hands on his leg, and extricated himself from the booth, trying not to think about all the other guys who'd jerked themselves off under the table. Probably none of them had been watching Brock fuck their girl, though.

Audrey was walking funny when she approached him, limping slightly but smiling broadly. "How're you?" she said, her voice soft, tender.

"I'm doin' alright," Butch said. He'd come good, the best in a long while. They didn't pass through very often, didn't get to indulge in Audrey's kinks very often. They'd tried to work out a similar arrangement with a few other men and women in the Capitol Wasteland, but no one did it as well as Brock, who even now was wiping down the table he'd fucked Audrey on.

He nodded at them as they walked past, hand-in-hand. He was grinning lazily. "Don't be strangers," he called, and Audrey blew him a kiss over her shoulder.

Bonny emerged from the back room as they reached the door. "Kids these days," she snarled.

Butch and Audrey stifled laughter as they made their way through the silent halls to the Weatherly, where Vera greeted them with a slightly-accusatory frown. The giggles didn't subside until they reached Audrey's room, where round two began in earnest.


	9. I Wanna Be Your Dog, Caesar/Vulpes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Vulpes Inculta gets rimmed by Caesar_
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5459.html?thread=9766483#t9766483)
> 
> Kinks: dom/sub, rimming, orgasm denial, rough sex

"Relax, Inculta," Caesar rumbled, his lips millimeters from Vulpes' ear, raising gooseflesh on his arms.

Vulpes tried to do as his Lord commanded, tried to ease his white-knuckle grip on Caesar's headboard. He was too nervous, too tense. He had never once felt _relaxed_ in the presence of his Lord; relaxation was the opposite of vigilance, and vigilance was his lifeblood, his bread and butter--

"What did I say?" The hand on his cock stilled, and Vulpes shifted desperately in Caesar's hold. His Lord was pressed up against him, pinning him to the headboard. Caesar was only halfway erect, preferring instead to focus on Vulpes: a light, teasing hand on his cock; cool fingers tracing the length of his spine; a rough voice reminding him that he wasn't allowed to remove his hands from the headboard, wasn't allowed to come, wasn't allowed to turn his head, wasn't allowed to speak.

"Answer me," Caesar demanded.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," he mumbled, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying not to focus all his attention on Caesar's ringed hand, which remained statue-still, squeezing his cock without allowing Vulpes any relief. His balls felt like stones, swollen, tender, and painful. His Lord was a cruel lover, cruel indeed.

Caesar's free hand trailed up and down Vulpes' chest, tweaking one nipple and tangling in his chest hair. He pressed a wet kiss to the sensitive skin behind Vulpes' ear and squeezed his cock hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Vulpes bit his lip and swallowed the shout that bubbled up in his throat. He was so focused on obedience that he missed his Lord's next words, earning himself a stinging slap and another sharp squeeze.

"I said, 'do you want to relax?' You may answer my question."

"Y-yes, my Lord."

Caesar raked his nails down Vulpes' chest, a stinging reprimand. "Without stuttering, Inculta."

Vulpes swallowed and forced himself to say, very carefully, "Yes, my Lord."

"Better." His Lord rewarded him with another kiss, this time to the junction of his shoulder and neck. Vulpes pressed his lips together to stop himself moaning.

Caesar shifted his weight, leaned away from Vulpes and laid down behind him. The Frumentarius stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the canvas tent wall. He could feel his Lord's breath on his ass. "Remember," said Caesar, gently, "Both hands on the headboard. Don't move. Don't make a sound. Don't lose control of yourself. Relax."

Vulpes nodded and tightened his hold on the headboard despite himself. His cock was throbbing, his arms were shaking from the strain of holding back. He wanted to come, he _needed_ to come, if only his Lord would grant him leave--

Suddenly, Caesar pressed his mouth against Vulpes' ass. His Lord had a hand on each buttock, spreading him to allow his tongue easier penetration. He clenched, his muscles rejecting the invasion even as his sensory organs reveled in it. A finger, then two, joined the tongue, scissoring back and forth, loosening him and pressing ever-deeper into his ass. He unclenched, muscle by muscle, even as the rest of his body thrummed with tension.

He bit his cheek to keep himself from crying out, so hard he tasted blood. He fought to throw his head back and moan like a whore, fought the urge to thrust backwards against his Lord's mouth. Instead, he focused on his body, forcing himself to take stock of his extremities.

His face was burning from shame and pleasure, his arms were shaking with exhaustion. His fingers were numb, his cock and balls were heavy, engorged with blood and purple with neglect. His feet and toes were in much the same condition as his hands and fingers, numb and irrelevant in the face of such intense pleasure. His head was fuzzy, he was dizzy and disoriented and his mouth was dry, as if it had been packed with cotton.

One of Caesar's hands snaked around his waist and closed around his cock. He began pumping, and Vulpes couldn't help himself any longer. He moaned, a drawn-out wail that was half-pain, half-pleasure. He was certain that every living soul in the Fort heard him.

More egregiously, he came against his Lord's hand, making a mess of himself.

The mouth and fingers abruptly withdrew from his ass, leaving him chilled and empty and desperate. His Lord seized him by the shoulder and forced him to face him.

One hand on the back of his neck, Caesar forced him down to his belly. His Lord's cock, now fully hard, filled his field of vision. Vulpes opened his mouth, ready and eager for his Lord's cock, but instead, Caesar thrust his hand in front of Vulpes' eyes.

His hand was coated in Vulpes' seed, rings and all. "What do you have to say for yourself?" Caesar demanded, speaking as he would to the hounds. Vulpes' face burned and his stomach clenched with shame, and his own cock twitched at the perversity of it all.

"Forgive m-me, my L-L-Lord," he stuttered. Caesar slapped him full across the face, cutting his lip and smearing Vulpes' ejaculate over his face. He forced his hand into Vulpes' mouth without giving him time to recover from the shock.

Caesar's hand filled his mouth entirely, half-choking him. Vulpes closed his eyes and set to cleaning his own semen from his Lord's fingers, sucking and licking and swallowing his own cum. Caesar hummed and petted him, stroking his hair and lavishing praise on him. He flushed, humiliated and jubilant all at the same time.

Once his Lord was satisfied, he withdrew his fingers and exchanged them for his cock. Vulpes, immobilized by Caesar's hands on his neck, moaned and tried to ease his Lord's way into his throat, silently urging Caesar to use him.

 _Please my Lord,_ he thought. _Fuck me. I am your dog, use me, fuck me, please._

The last word somehow escaped his lips, and that was what forced his Lord over the edge. Caesar came, deep in Vulpes' throat, forcing him to swallow or choke. He pulled himself free of Vulpes' grip and wiped himself clean using the Frumentarius' discarded uniform.

"Good job, Inculta," he said, absently. "You're dismissed."


	10. Sufficient, Vulpes/F!Courier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Whatever really, as long as Vulpes is attempting something sexy._
> 
> [Original Post](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/588.html?thread=13460044#t13460044)
> 
> Kinks: cunnilingus

The eve of the battle, and Rosa was overcome by a strange calm. She had bathed and dressed for bed, but she found herself unable to sleep. Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, inspecting her gun by the light of the setting sun and the kerosene lamp on her scarred wooden desk. Her hands were steady on her pistol (the one with the snakeskin grip, the one she'd taken from the corpse of the Malpais Legate). A drum was beating somewhere in the camp, and she could hear dogs barking over the rumble of Caesar’s men preparing for battle. She supposed that she ought to be feeling _something_ : fear or trepidation or regret, but there was nothing. It was the same blankness that had overtaken her when she faced Benny in the arena, the same calm that had carried her through the raids on Bittersprings and Forlorn Hope.

She turned the pistol over in her hands, scratched at the inscription on the side. He'd gone down easier than she'd expected, Joshua Graham. Just a man, in the end. She'd drawn a bead on him and said his name, her voice echoing in the damp cavern. He had turned, water lapping at his ankles, and she'd blown him away. Just like that.

A shadow fell across her bed and she turned to see Vulpes framed in the tent’s open doorway. With the setting sun at his back, he shone like a god, brilliant and red. He was dressed casually, a crimson tunic and bare legs. No insignia, no armor, nothing to indicate his rank. He might have been a slave, except for the steely glint in his eyes. Rosa sat up a little straighter, breath catching in her throat.

"Courier," he said, and his voice was like ice in the hot, still air.

She dropped her gaze to her lap and tugged at the strap to her nightgown, suddenly self-conscious. “I got a name,” she said, bolder than she felt.

"So you do," he said, plainly disinterested. "Have you begun your preparations?"

She gestured to the pile of knives and ammunition on the desk, to the armor on the dummy in the corner. "I'm ready."

He stepped into the tent, though she hadn't invited him in. He crossed the dirt floor in three quick strides and bent his head to inspect her weaponry. He lifted a knife from the pile (she’d taken it from a grave north of Goodsprings; it was what she had used to gut Benny) and wordlessly turned it over in his hands.

Vulpes had beautiful hands. They were elegantly proportioned, long, graceless fingers and narrow palms crossed with scar tissue and callous. She imagined his lovely hands cupping her breast or probing her cunt. Her mouth went dry and something twitched in her gut. She squeezed her thighs together, willfully ignoring the heat building in her belly.

"It will have to suffice," he said, looking levelly at her. "Have you readied yourself?" His gaze sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her cheeks go warm.

"What do you mean?" She wanted him, wanted his pale face between her brown legs, his pink mouth pressed up against her clit. She wanted to feel his tongue and lips and fingers, wanted to know that he was drinking her in, tasting her, savoring the acid tang of her juices. She pressed her lips together in a thin line, and the fire in her gut flared.

Vulpes didn't answer immediately. He replaced the knife, made a minute adjustment a pile of ammunition. He picked up an empty shell casing (a leftover from one of her experiments in hand-loading), examined it, and returned it to the heap.

"It is customary," he said, drawing out each word, "for Legionaries to lay with a woman on the eve of the battle."

The temperature in the tent seemed to increase by several degrees. Rosa sucked in a surprised breath through her teeth, then realized she was clutching the edge of the bed with a white-knuckled grip.

His back was to her, but even if he'd been facing her, she wouldn't have been able to read his expression. She imagined he was holding his face just so, a slight narrowing of the eyes offset by the casual, practiced set of his jaw. He wouldn't be pursing his lips, wouldn't be furrowing his brows. Maybe his eyelashes (his beautiful eyelashes, like dark lace against the creamy porcelain of his skin) would flutter, maybe he'd resist blinking. Once again, she imagined his face between her thighs, imagined the careful, focused expression he'd wear as he sucked her clit.

"Oh," she said. "Is it?"

He turned, his face predictably blank. "Indeed."

For a moment, neither spoke.

"If you would indulge me, Courier."

"Please," she said, mouth dry.

He barely seemed to move as he closed the distance between them. He moved with a serpent's liquid grace, light eyes locked on her face. She was burning, but his fingertips were cool against her flushed skin as he gently tipped her head upwards to meet his gaze. She let her eyelids flutter shut, forced herself to sit still. Her heart was pounding at a thousand beats per minute, her fingers had gone numb. Her cunt was aching, and she shivered in anticipation, waiting for a kiss that did not come.

Instead, he ran one of his cold fingers across her parted lips. She shuddered, and a small moan escaped her. He chuckled and pushed into her mouth, and her tongue darted forth to meet his finger. She closed her lips around his digit and sucked, and he chuckled again.

She leaned back and opened her eyes, meeting his gaze for the first time since he'd entered the tent. "I want you," she said bluntly. "I been wanting you since--since the first day. In Nipton."

And that had been months ago, though she could recall it as though it were yesterday. It had been one of those perfect autumn days where the sun shines brilliantly and the sky’s a perfect, cloudless blue. There had a been a cold, dry wind, stirring up clouds of dust in the desert, a warning of the winter to come. She’d been shivering in a borrowed Vault suit reinforced with bits and pieces she’d found along the way, carrying a 10mm that jammed more than it fired. She was tired and cold, dehydrated and hungry, uncomfortably aware of the sun creeping toward the western horizon. She'd seen the smoke on the horizon and figured _might as well_ and that was how she'd come into Nipton. That was how she'd met him.

The scent of blood and rot and burning flesh filled her nostrils, and she was sick by the side of the road. Nevertheless, he compelled her, drawing her like a moth to a flame, a hawk to a nest. He was a god amid the smoke and ruin of the town that had been Nipton, arrayed in splendor; beautiful, perfect, and pale as the moon. And already, in that first moment, that first meeting of eyes, she wanted him.

He was beautiful, even hidden by the damned dogs head and those thick, dark glasses. She noticed the barest line of stubble on his jaw, the pleasing angles of his nose and a tiny cleft in his pointed chin. He wasn't a physically opposing man (in boots, she stood three inches taller) but he was well-built, muscular and lithe, like a distance runner.

"How did you want me," he said.

"Between my legs," she said, gaining confidence with each word. "Kneeling--yeah, like that--with your mouth up against me. Looking me in the eye." As she spoke, he obeyed, following her instructions to the letter.

"And where are my hands?" he asked.

She considered for a moment. "On my thighs."

"And my mouth?"

"On my--" she hesitated, speaking the word first in Spanish, then in English, her cheeks burning red. "--My panocha. My pussy."

"As you wish," he said, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a smile playing on his lips. And then he pushed the hem of her nightgown up over her thighs and buried his face in the dark tangle of hair between her legs. He pressed his open mouth against her, his tongue darting out to sample her.

She shut her eyes again and leaned back, shifting her weight to one. With her newly freed hand, she reached down, into the junction of their bodies, and parted herself for him. Vulpes ran his tongue up and down her vulva, eyes locked on her face. She encouraged him with sharp gasps and sweet moans, whispers of praise and encouragement.

He was good, enthusiastic. He pressed against her, drenching himself in her juices, licking and sucking in equal measure. He teased her, neglecting her poor, aching clit in favor of pressing soft kisses to her lips, inner and outer, running his tongue along her seam. He was gentle and sweet, but there was a careful, deliberate cruelty in his attentions. She had been aroused before he had begun, and now she was aching, her clit engorged and tender. She was flushed red, from her face to her cunt, desperate for release.

"Stop," she moaned, "Please, stop."

He immediately drew away from her, and even in the dim tent, she could see that his face was dripping, sopping wet with her own lubrication. He was grinning, wolfish and smug. She groaned, and reached out for him, seizing him by the ear and roughly pulling him back in, forcing him to resume his task.

"Suck me," she ordered, gasping for breath, "suck my clit." It was difficult to sound imperious when she was so close to orgasm, but she managed. Her forearms were aching, her wrists cramping up. She needed to come and soon if only to relieve the pressure in her arms.

Her swirled his tongue around her sensitive bud, tracing its shape. He was deliberate and careful, as methodical as though he were reading from a manual. And so attentive, so obedient. He didn't once break eye contact, even when she threw her head back and cried out in pleasure.

Her hips bucked, and waves of pleasure rolled over her. Her back arched and her toes curled; she beat at him with her free hand, ineloquently urging him on, begging him for more. It was as she had imagined it, but even her vividest fantasies paled in reality to the man kneeling between her spread legs, sucking eagerly at her dripping cunt.

When she was through, Vulpes pulled back again. Rosa sat up, light-headed and giddy, smiling broadly.

"And what now, Courier?" he asked, squeezing her thigh.

Rosa stroked his head, enjoying the prickly texture of his hair underneath her fingers. "You did me good," she said. An unfamiliar soreness had settled in her nethers, an ache kin to the one she felt in her legs after running. It was the dull throb of exertion and exhaustion. She'd come that good.

"Fuck me,” she ordered.

He stood and climbed onto the bed, mattress squeaking in protest. It took some doing to align themselves properly on the narrow frame, but he managed to position himself over her, straddling his hips. He was hard, his cock plainly visible through his shift. She pulled the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and bared her breasts for him, smiling coquettishly up at him. He palmed her breasts, pinched one nipple, drawing a sharp squeak from her lips. “Lovely,” he said approvingly.

He ran his calloused thumb over her breast, then bent to press a kiss to her collarbone. He lifted the hem of his shift to free himself, then pushed into her. He kissed her fiercely while he fucked her, reigning bruises on her throat and breastbone. He paid unusual attention to her tits, working her into a frenzy while her pussy shifted to accommodate him. She felt herself clenching around him, heard him groan, though his mouth was still full of her breast.

Rosa pulled her hands out from under him and raked her nails down his back, enjoying the hiss of pain she elicited. Vulpes responded in kind, moving his hand from her breasts to her throat, lightly constricting her airway, his eyes locked on hers. She kissed him, moved her hands from his back to his ass, and then wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing him deeper into her.

He didn’t last long. His dick twitched inside of her and Vulpes moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. He let himself collapse on top of her, and she laughed and pushed him away. “Is that all, Inculta?”

"It will have to suffice," he said, and he laughed along with her.


End file.
